


Midnight At The Lost And Found

by XvoodooXXblueX



Category: Supernatural, Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XvoodooXXblueX/pseuds/XvoodooXXblueX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byron stumbles upon a rather strange bar and offers an Angel of the Lord his wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight At The Lost And Found

Something above the door jingled obnoxiously as Byron walked in and he looked up in confusion at the strangely shaped bell above the entrance. The face engraved in it looked… evil, distorted, though that might have just been his vision. This wasn’t the first bar he’d visited that night. It was, however, by far the strangest, he realised as he ventured further. Looking around, he could have sworn the walls were sparkling green. The mostly empty tables were dimly lit, barely visible, however the bar itself seemed brightly bathed in some sort of spotlight. A lone figure sat there on one of the stools.

Byron shrugged and made his way over to the counter, sitting a few stools down from the stranger. Sat down there, he glanced at the other patron. The man looked miserable. Byron sighed; he could absolutely relate. Whatever made the other man miserable, these days Byron was sure he could relate.

Sighing silently, Byron looked up as a darkly dressed man bustled out from a door behind the bar and swiped the other patron’s empty glass from the surface as he walked by.

“And what can I get you?” the stocky bartender asked Byron in a bright and enthusiastic voice and an impeccable British accent. Byron looked up at him and momentarily got distracted by the light shining into his eyes and the picture of a scantily dressed woman painted on the wall behind him. Eventually, Byron ordered whisky.

He received his drink and started sipping it, large sips, while the bartender washed up more glasses. The only other patron present at the bar had yet to say a word or even move. Byron glanced over once more before returning to contemplating his drink.

A few minutes later a wet glass noisily thunked against worn wood. Byron looked up from his drink to see the barman sighing and scrutinising both him and his fellow patron with keen, beady eyes.

“My God, you two,” he exclaimed loudly, though less cheerfully than before. “Why so miserable?”

At that the other patron finally looked up, glaring at the bartender with an intensity that made Byron both flinch and look on in awe. From the way the man had been sitting there, hunched over and obviously miserable, Byron hadn’t been prepared for the command that gaze held and even less for the one in the man’s voice.

“Don’t dare use his name, Crowley.” There was dark ice in that voice and suddenly Byron’s attention was torn from his drink and to the exchange taking place beside him.

Crowley snorted and went back to washing up. “Maybe ‘bloody Hell’ would have been more appropriate,” he mused, looking up slightly, eyebrow raised mockingly. “Then again, I suppose neither has been particularly helpful recently.”

The stranger simply nodded stiffly, still glaring, but with less vigour. Byron remained staring, blindly lifting the glass to his mouth in a well-practiced motion. Something about that exchange, Hell, about this entire place just seemed strange, surreal almost.

Before that thought could manifest in Byron’s mind any further, the bartender, Crowley, his name seemed to be, turned his attention to Byron.

“And what’s wrong with you?” the man asked, giving Byron a pointed once-over. “It’s late, you’re drunk and in my bar and it’s 1948.” Crowley paused for a moment, smug smile on his face. “That… sounded almost poetic, don’t you think?”

He bustled over to hand the patron next to Byron another drink before continuing his monologue.

“Your lover run off? Had to shoot them? Sibling in Hell or dragged back to Heaven? Family engaged in cosmic battle? Accidentally ended the world… or worse?” Crowley bent forward a little so that Byron was almost forced to meet the man’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, son,” Crowley said in a low tone. “I’ve seen it all, I have.” Crowley stepped back, motioning to the man sitting a few stools from Byron: “Angel Boy, here, for instance, lost his grace.”

Byron frowned at the bartender in confusion and also at how carelessly the man had almost invaded his personal space. But mostly he just had no idea what he was talking about.

And then he was back and had caught Byron’s chin in a strong hand. Crowley leant down and met Byron’s eyes and Byron couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t physically move, feeling trapped in the darkness of that eerily knowing gaze.

“Hm… no,” Crowley murmured. “None of the above, I see. And, oh, bugger. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that lover, should I?”

Byron swallowed and tried to look away, both because he couldn’t bear those eyes boring into him, reading him like that any longer and because this whole display was truly unsettling him, but Crowley’s hand held fast, even as the man sighed.

“No, no, I really am sorry,” he said and Byron was almost willing to believe him. “You’ve lost much, I see that. You feel you’ve lost it all.” Crowley pulled away and let go of Byron’s jaw, straightening up but as Byron looked up that heavy gaze was still gravely fixed on him.

“You’re wandering a dark path,” Crowley then said, shaking his head. “A very dark path. Don’t get lost.”

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he returned to washing glasses, but not before shoving another drink Byron’s way. 

“Don’t listen to him,” the man next to Byron suddenly spoke up. “He’s a demon.”

Byron’s stare which had been fixed solely on Crowley until then snapped to the stranger who had just spoken. The first words Byron had heard the man say all night and they made no sense at all.

“Oh, shut up, Cas,” Crowley’s voice cut in from somewhere to the side, sounding almost bored as if someone accusing him of being a demon were a common occurrence. ‘Cas’, however, did shut up, returning to nursing his drink and as Byron realised that no more words were likely to be forthcoming he did the same. Damn, he really needed that drink now and many more after that.

Another few hours and more than a few drinks later Byron was positive that he was very drunk and that the walls really did sparkle a strange kind of green. The scantily clad woman depicted on the wall vaguely reminded him of Sally and he had become aware of several other strange objects and artefacts scattered throughout the bar which now remained occupied only by himself, Crowley and… Byron glanced over to the man sitting next to him, squinting and trying to remember his name.

“Angel boy?” Byron murmured mostly to himself before frowning in confusion. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but Crowley had called him ‘angel boy’. This was confusing and it was something Byron simply couldn’t tolerate in his inebriated state.

“Why… did he call you ‘angel boy’?” Byron asked his silent comrade-in-the-drowning-of-sorrows.

The man slowly turned his head to set intense blue eyes on Byron.

“Because I am— was an Angel of the Lord.”

The answer came simply, sincerely, final, and Byron was once again left to stare incredulously. An ‘Angel of the Lord’? Byron suppressed a sigh. He really wasn’t sure he had the patience left to deal with a religious fanatic, but ‘angel boy’, Byron mentally grimaced, seemed innocent enough, so Byron was going to humour him.

“What’s your name? Sorry, I just can’t call you ‘angel boy’.”

“Good, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. My name is Castiel. Some people call me Cas.”

Byron nodded: “Cas it is, then.”

Byron downed the rest of his drink, then, and decided it should be his last for the night.

“So, an angel? Do you have wings?” Byron asked, squinting again drunkenly, and he couldn’t help thinking that wings would certainly not detract from Cas’ appeal. He also couldn’t help thinking that it was a ridiculous thought and that he was really way too drunk. 

“Not anymore,” Cas replied sombrely, averting his eyes. “I suppose… I am human now.”

“Aren’t we all…,” Byron murmured, raising an eyebrow in slight surprise. Cas seemed genuinely depressed by the concept of being ‘human’. Byron watched as the other man downed his drink and began to cast his eyes around the bar, probably in search of Crowley and more alcohol. The sight was strangely heart-wrenching. As if this just wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Then again, Byron had to admit to himself, scenes like these were never how it was supposed to be.

Byron sighed silently, then gave a quiet, derisive snort.

“I have a pair of wings,” he said. “You could have those, I suppose. I doubt I’ll need them for much longer.”

With that, Byron got up unsteadily, readying himself to leave.

Cas turned his head slowly to set a look of confusion on Byron.

“You’re human,” he said. “Humans don’t have wings.” However, the tinyest twitch of the corners of Cas’ lips betrayed a small smile. “Thank you, though, for the offer.”

Byron blinked for a moment and then felt his face split into a grin he just couldn’t stop as he shook his head.

“You’re welcome,” Byron said, before throwing a wad of notes on the counter to pay for his drinks. Sauntering out of the bar, Byron’s grin turned slightly incredulous, though his mood was strangely lightened, if only for a while.

“Angels and demons…,” Byron murmured, amused, as he weaved his way down the street. Just as he reached the end, he stopped to turn around and look back. The night was dark, the street gloomy and obscured by a light fog, but the illuminated sign stood out like a beacon: The Lost and Found.


End file.
